Hello Chair, it's Me, Troy
by Allume a Pense
Summary: [gabriella's chapter up] One of Darbus' assignments is to write to an inanimate object, and Troy just can't seem to make anything come out right. Evidently, neither can Gabriella.
1. Signed, Troy

**Author's Note: **Hey everyone! This is Kat. I'm sorry there's no update on STAF, so you can have this instead. It's cowritten with xx LIVE in LOVE because she thought it was fun to write. (: Her chapater is Gabriella's letter. This was originally meant to be a oneshot, you see ...anyways.

**Review! That makes Megan post her chapter quicker!**

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Dear Chair,

Just when I thought Darbus couldn't get any weirder, she assigns us this project. I mean seriously – a letter to an inanimate object of her choice? I got "chair." Taylor was begging me to trade her; she was holding the basketball like it was a cyanide pill, but Darbus said no trades.

I really should watch what I say about her – Darbus, I mean – because she is going to read this, you know.

So chair, I guess I'll introduce myself. The name's Troy. Do you have a name? I suspect most things have names whether they can talk or not. My sister's stuffed bear is named Happy. Plus, it doesn't make much sense because the bear doesn't have a mouth. Can a mouthless bear be happy with no smile? Does that make sense?

Okay, I already know you think I'm a freak. But guess what. You have no name, so it kind of sucks for you.

I just over analyze things, says my dad. I don't understand because normally, I don't think about half the things I do or say. Most people know that about me.

Moving on …

Darbus said the point of the assignment is to let out our "creative energy in a healthy way". She's just looking for ammunition for later. But she said that she won't grade this and it has nothing to do with our overall grade. If that's true, why am I writing it? Do I feel the obligation to do my part in class? Nah …I hate homeroom.

I didn't even know homeroom had homework. Argh. Any word used in school with the word "home" before it is no longer my friend.

So, creative energy. What am I supposed to say to a chair? In fact, I'm not even sitting in you, chair. I'm sitting on the floor, staring at you. And you know why? Because I respect the objects that I write to. But don't give me any trouble because then you'll have to meet my butt.

Haha. Meet my butt. I can imagine that. _"Butt, meet chair. Chair, butt."_

"_Why hello there. Your cushion is very soft."_

"_Why thank you! You are very firm yourself!"_

Okay, you can ignore that.

I guess I'll start off with the winter musical we had a couple months ago. It was named Twinkle Towne, Darbus' idea of course. It was actually pretty popular! In the three nights it showed, I think all of the student body went. Even the grey kids, who were probably chewing tobacco, not gum, in the second-to-last row. One of the nights, Gabriella couldn't make it and I ended up kissing Sharpay. It was okay, but she tasted like thin-mint-cookies mixed with soy milk. And she smelt like roses or something.

Oh, I don't think you know Gabriella. Well, maybe you've been acquainted with her butt because she sits in this desk sometimes. How is her butt, anyways? Good? Okay.

Pretend I never asked that. And don't tell her.

Anyways, Gabriella transferred here to East High in January. Normally, all transfers are never heard from. They kind of exist to do nothing, and you don't really hear about them. Well normally (of course, you don't know me to be normal, do you chair?) that would be the same thing here when she came. But it wasn't.

Because before she came I met her for the first time at a ski lodge in Colorado. She looked like a ski bunny I guess. I mean she was pretty like one, and her sparkly shirt reminded me of Sharpay. That would be tragic, wouldn't it be? _Two _Sharpays at this school. Almost all of the student body would shrivel up and die. Sorry, Ms. Darbus, but you honestly need to like video tape that girl to see what she's really like.

But then, Gabriella started to sing. On stage with me. And her voice just kind of dug right into me and planted itself down, refusing to move at all costs. And then, with the applause in the background and the spotlight shining on our faces, I would kill to know her name. So I stared, almost choking on my own name. And then she shook my hand and said it.

That's it.

She just said it.

No "Hi my name is …"

No "Nice to meet you, I'm …"

No "Ew don't touch me, but I'm …"

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but her name in that warming, pretty voice.

"Gabriella."

That, and a smile. Of course, my male instincts told me to take her outside and talk to her a bit. It's not that I like her. I swear to god, my thoughts don't come from above my waist sometimes. I promise. And if Darbus gives me an F for even mentioning that, chair, well that's okay, cause at least she knows the truth.

Anyways, in some long boring story about friendship and perseverance (blah, blah, blah) she and I landed the lead roles in Twinkle Towne, which brings me up to the paragraph above. Twinkle Towne was a definite plus because …

a.) I got to kiss Gabriella.

b.) People are cheering my name somewhere other than the gym, and

c.) I got to kiss Gabriella.

Yeah. Those are all valid reasons to like the show.

I don't know, it's just like every time I get around her I turn into some inanimate object (no offense, chair) and stop talking. I stop moving too, like I get all stiff (NOT THAT WAY!) and stop blinking. Then she snaps her fingers twice in front of my face and the scent of a perfume called Clinique Happy – I've seen it in her room before, that's all! – fills my nose and everything's no longer surreal.

Bah. Stupid male instincts. She's my best friend and it's wrong to like her. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! …Right? It's wrong to like her right? But if I weren't her friend, would it be right to like her? How could it be _right _to like anybody anyways? I guess there are a few people in this world you'd have to be crazy to not like …like Jessica Alba …

Okay, now I'm just confusing myself.

Oh, hold on nameless chair, I sense someone walking up to me.

Speak of the devil, it was Gabriella. Technically, you can't call her a devil.

Speak of the angel, it was Gabriella.

That sounds stupid too. Ah, whatever.

She was wondering what I was doing sitting on the floor with a clipboard and a pencil. I told her I was just about to ask the same question, because seriously, how stupid does it sound to say "I'm writing to this chair right here"? Don't get me wrong No Name, you're cool. But you sit under my butt all day, so our relationship can only extend to a certain point.

Anyways, she rolled her eyes and told me I was so not funny. She's supposed to be writing to the blackboard, but knowing her, she's probably done with some 20-page essay to it. When she began to walk away I grabbed onto her ankle and made her stumble. Payback's a bitch.

She just smirked at me, chair. I am so funny.

I like to make her laugh. I used to think all girls' laughs sound the same, you know? High pitched and sometimes annoying. But not Gabriella, she has this kind of different laugh that really isn't one …it's like a chuckle. Does that count as a laugh? It's just sweet and low, and kind of quiet …not those really obnoxious laughs that are too loud.

Yes, I know I'm a freak, chair. And I think I'm confusing myself again.

But it really doesn't matter when it comes to her because she's _different_. That's all she is. Different.

…

Okay, so I just reread my whole paper to you, chair. I'm afraid the only two who will ever lay eyes on it is you and me. I'm sorry, was that insensitive to you? Okay. The only person who will lay eyes on it is me. And you can use your telepathic powers to read it. Do you have telepathic powers? That would be kind of creepy, knowing that I sit on you for all of homeroom …let's call it a truce. You never morph my ass and I'll never fart on you ever again.

Is it a deal?

Good.

This means that Darbus will never ever get her grubby little paws on this paper. Which means …I can say whatever I want to her! GUESS WHAT MS. DARBUS! THAT VIDEO FROM POLE DANCERS R US YOU GOT IN YOUR MAIL A MONTH AGO? …MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU INSULT TO THE ARTS!

Wow.

I feel so much better.

And by the way chair, if you ever, ever tell Gabriella anything I said on these pieces of paper, you'll never stand in this classroom again. This is of utmost importance! She can never find out anything I said because …well, because I'm only a friend do her.

I'm only the guy who she knows to just dump her books on, not to get offered to carry them by.

I'm only the guy she'll cry on, not cry about.

I'm only the guy who might (kiddingly!) try to shove her over a desk, not try to catch her. Okay, I might do both.

Speaking of that, she's walking awfully close to that desk right there …this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. So, until next time, no name.

-Troy

P.S. Keep it quiet or I'm getting the bean burrito at lunch.

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**Hope you liked it! Please review!**


	2. Love, Gabriella

**Author's Note: **Finally, right? Megan was way too lazy to update it herself, so I just wrote it myself. I'm not sure if it's as good as Troy's but I tried! This story is going a little AU: just pretend that instead of Troy and Gabriella dating, they're still friends crushing hard. Even through the second movie. Kay?

Also, I'm formally joining Team Hudgens. V-fenders for the win! Check the profile, it's been totally revamped, for your viewing pleasures. (:

PLEASE REVIEW!!

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Um, I'm really unsure how to start this paper …after all, I'm not much experienced writing to a classroom object. But I guess I'll start formally, as I normally would to anyone else I'd be writing to. My name is Gabriella Montez. I'm seventeen years old and I'm actually currently a senior. I'd like to point out a few things to you and let you know things about me that would normally freak out any other human …

Object …

Err …

Yeah …

Okay, well, anyways. Number one: I'm an analytical genius. Meaning in my own special terms that I read into things too much and I like math. So, you're still there (I'm ignoring the fact that you can't _actually_ move) so I'll continue. I'm allergic to kosher cheese, but that's not the reason I wasn't ever invited to a bar mitzvah. And, I can't whistle. So I think that sums me up pretty well.

So, how do you like East High? I suppose you get to see everyone who passes by …you know, the scantily clad populars or the Abercrombie and Fitch wearing wannabes. I think those people should invest in Target or something, because honestly, whoever started the whole "holes in your jeans means you're a hardcore hottie" trend needs to swallow a knife.

Ooh, clever Gabriella Montez, making the surrounding people think you're sweet-as-sugar …

I think it's really sad that I have to wear the stamp of innocence on my forehead. Has anyone not ever heard of "girls just wanna have fun"? Apparently not, because I'm restricted to manners and etiquette. If I ever have to go through another kiddie explanation about something rated higher than G, I think I might run to the nearest living object and beat it hard with a stick.

See? I said living. So you're safe.

Okay, don't get touchy.

Okay, this might seem random but don't you hate when people scratch their fingernails on you? Who's the clever child that came up with that? I figure it might be annoying and cringe-inducing for us, but for you …I mean, god …someone's just like scratching the crap out of you …

I told you! Over analytical!

Bah. Now I've gotten worked up and I have a hand cramp. In times like these, I usually go and eat a cookie. But we're working in an extended homeroom, and Ms. Darbus unfortunately does not have a convenient stock of cookies on hand. Maybe she's on a diet or something. She should buy some of the diet cookies, then, and feed them to her class. I'm looking around the room for inspiration to 'expand the horizons of my creative energy and fleeting soul'. All I see is Taylor looking ready to stab a basketball, Chad with a pencil balancing on the bridge of his nose, and Troy sitting on the floor, writing beside his desk.

And I'm here, sitting on top of a desk, staring into the black abyss known as your surface my blackboard friend.

I find it rather amusing that Troy's sitting on the floor while he writes to his object. It's a chair, if I'm not mistaken. He takes things really seriously …one time when we were at Sharpay's country club, I looked out the dance studio window and I saw him dancing like a barefoot ballerina. I had a cookie in my mouth at the time (leg cramps!) and I ended up spitting it out in laughter. Later on in life, I made a joke about it and he told me to go sing something.

I don't think he wanted me to start singing _that _song, though.

The boy's hilarious, my gosh. Even if I do end up laughing over his own crass stupidity. He's the only fruit loop I know that can trip of thirteen and a half mailboxes in one sitting. Okay, now the trick here is to go back and re-read that sentence. Yeah! I KNOW. Thirteen and a _half_. No joke.

See what you did? You started on my Troy rant. That's what Taylor calls them – I always start going on and on about the boy and I can't ever stop …I even ignore all existing and possible cramps just to keep explaining. It especially annoys my friends back in San Diego, because they can't see how amazing he really is …

…at basketball,

…at singing,

…at kissing.

Just kidding. I don't actually know how good at kissing he really is. Unless you count that one time at Chad's party, where we were playing truth or dare (please don't ask) in which case, I could also list how good of a kisser Chad, Ryan, Troy and Sharpay is …

OH GOD.

PLEASE IGNORE.

THANKS.

My eraser broke! God dammit. Ms. Darbus is going to read this. I could always scribble that part out, but then it would look messy. White out is also a possibility, but the fumes kills brain cells. Maybe I just won't give the paper to her. She's not going to grade it, afterall, and I'm sure she'll get a lot more entertaining papers than mine. So far, all I've done is broadcasted a subliminal advertisement for cookies and pertaining dough-based treats. Yum.

Ah. Brain cramp. I want a cookie.

Can I tell you a story? Well, I'm going to anyways, because you can't talk and tell me to shut up. Once, I had this stuffed bear, right? And I named him Blue – yes, Blue Bear. He was my best friend, we did everything together …teeter totter in the park, swings, coloring, finding numeric functions in the astrophysics field …normal kid stuff. Then one day, Blue got stolen by this huge pit-bull next door. Bravely, I went over the fence and tried to reclaim my comrade.

The pit bull bit my face.

The moral of the story? Don't try to beat a pit bull with a toy spatula.

I'm going to go see what Troy's doing. It's bugging me too much to see him smiling and not knowing what's causing it.

Alrighty, he's just writing the dumb letter to the desk. How could he be so into it anyways?

…What if he said something about me? He could be talking badly about me behind my back, and after I gave him the best space of my paper! He owes me a cookie for this hand cramp. Who knows, with that boy, he could be talking about his butt. Or my butt! Maybe he's saying that my butt has met his chair and they we've had a conversation!

Believe me, it could happen.

Well anyways, as I started to walk oh-so-innocently away from him, he grabbed my ankle and I almost tripped over a desk. I must fall over something everyday, thankfully I never break anything (except maybe Troy's nose for pushing me over the chair in the first place). But, I was feeling generous today and decided to spare him.

Well, blackboard, it's been cool but I've got to run. The bell is almost ready to ring, and I need to get to home economics. We're making cookies, and I think I deserve one!

Love, Gabriella.

P.S. Hmm, looks like Troy has conveniently dropped his chair-note on the floor and left. I picked it up; I'll just read it during home Ec. …

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